


In Sickness and in Health

by Amatara



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Domestic, Fever, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Series, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amatara/pseuds/Amatara
Summary: Doctors always make the worst patients. Even, or maybe especially, doctors for the dead.





	In Sickness and in Health

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Siver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siver/gifts).



> Written for Siver, who requested fever-themed h/c. Hope you enjoy!

 

Dale is… worried. Yes, ‘worried’ is the word he was looking for, and the reason it took him so long to find it is he’s not exactly used to applying it to himself. Tension, unease, nervousness - those are all familiar enough, be it through the pursuit of duty or simply pondering the complexities of life itself. But plain old worry? That one is rare. Especially the kind of worry directed towards a friend, and even more so given the nature of said friend… because Albert is the most reliable person Dale knows. For all his tendency to use words as weapons, Dale can’t think of a single time Albert gave him cause for doubt, or any case he handled with less than his usual tenacity. That, and he’s never, ever late - except now.

The catch is, for all Albert’s dedication to duty, their meeting tonight isn’t job-related. Not that Dale knows what to call it instead. A friendly dinner? A… _date_? Whatever it is, Albert promised to pick him up at home, but he’s already running an hour behind. And at Albert’s place, no one is answering the phone, so really, ‘worry’ is an understated description for everything Dale is feeling right now.

After an hour and thirty, he gives in. Albert lives a twenty-minute drive away, if the traffic is reasonable, and Dale wouldn’t _think_ of breaking the speed limit but he still skirts it for all it’s worth. He last saw Albert two days ago, leaving the office on Friday evening. Of course, maybe he just forgot about their dinner. Maybe he’s busy doing something else… except tonight was Albert’s idea in the first place, and Dale can’t imagine he’d fail to follow through. The other possibility - that Albert is somehow unable to meet him - is one he’s trying hard not to think about yet.

Arriving at the apartment building, it takes him less than a minute to talk the caretaker into handing him the master key. The elevator ride up seems to take forever, but then he’s at Albert’s door, breath sticking in his throat. Three knocks, loud and clear, but still no answer. Which leaves only one option. Bracing himself, he plunges the key in the lock.

The apartment is silent. Dale isn’t sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one; it might just mean that Albert has gone out. But there are shoes and a coat in the hallway, which doesn't bode well, and when he opens the door to the living room, the clutter on the dining table - half-empty mug of coffee, ditto bottle of water and some dirty plates - makes it clear someone either left in a hurry, or didn’t leave at all.

“Albert?” He raises his voice, not quite daring to hope for a reaction. But… wait. There _was_ a sound, coming from another room. Not a reply, but a rustle, or maybe a whisper? He moves on towards the inner hallway, pausing before a set of closed doors. Office, bedroom, bathroom… No way to be sure, but the sound’s coming from behind the door on the left, and Dale’s hand is on the latch before the rational part of his brain can stop him.

Bedroom. Big closet occupying one wall and a king-sized bed against the other, blankets hopelessly tangled, and the source of the noise he just heard…

He knows he’s rushing towards the bed but it feels more like wading through mud, and when he gets there, he has to stop and remember to breathe.

Albert’s on his side, knees tucked against his ribs, cheeks puffy and slick with sweat. Something thick and grinding rattles in his chest, and he coughs - weakly, his face scrunching up with the effort.

Dale isn’t a doctor, and as a diagnosis, ‘this is bad’ is more than useless, but for a moment that's all he comes up with. It’s Albert who is the doctor here, and Albert would be the first to grab Dale by the shoulders and tell him that running around like a headless chicken isn’t about to help anyone. But he’s got a fever, and that definitely seems bad; Dale can feel the heat coming off him, and brushing a hand across Albert’s forehead does nothing at all to settle his fears.

“Damn, Albert, why didn’t you call me?” He might as well be asking it to thin air. Albert isn’t moving a muscle, and Dale’s about ten seconds away from slinging him across his shoulder and carrying him towards the car and a medical professional _now -_ never mind that Albert might give him hell for it later _-_ when he notices the clutter on the nightstand. Tissues, small bottle of water, along with a few strips of pills in a box. Fever meds. No way to tell when Albert last took one, but by the look of him, not too recently. Meaning these are probably Dale's best shot at doing something useful, short of carting Albert off towards a hospital. That, and get some fluids in him.

Back in the kitchen, he grinds one of the pills into powder, methodically stirs it through water until it’s dissolved. Then he refills the small bottle and returns to the bedroom, where Albert is lying as silent and flushed as before.

He mutters something unintelligible when Dale wedges an arm beneath him, then tries to prop him up against the pillow. The faint stubble of beard takes some of the sharpness off his face: he looks fragile in a way that makes Dale’s throat hurt.

"There we go, Albert,” he says, with more confidence than he feels, as he tilts the bottle up to Albert’s lips. “Work with me, now, that’s it…”

Albert grimaces and averts his face, the angry pout on his lips utterly in character. Dale strokes his cheek with cautious fingers, makes soft shushing noises that he hopes are comforting to a man in the throes of a fever. It seems to help, because Albert’s head turns back towards him.

“W… Who…?” Dark eyes flutter open, narrowing in suspicion at the sight of him. Then a faint, relieved smile crosses Albert’s features. “‘m dreaming.” His voice is slurred, his look fever-glazed. "You never look at me like that ‘xcept in my… d-d-dreams.”

Dale swallows, his hand still on Albert’s cheek. _‘No, it’s really me’_ is on the tip of his tongue, but Albert is clearly delirious. Why else would he be talking like this - about _him_ , of all people? Dale presses away the question for now, focusing on their more immediate need. “Albert, I really need you to drink this. It’s important. Can you do that for me?”

Albert gives him a long, dazed look, then his chin dips down. “‘Kay,” he mumbles, turning his face into Dale’s palm with a sigh. “God, you’re beautiful. Pity you ain’t r-real.” But he accepts the water well enough, sipping reluctantly at first, then with more enthusiasm. By the time the bottle is empty, with only some of it having spilled down his shirt, Albert is shivering again and his breathing is rapid. But Dale could swear there’s a small, dreamy grin on his face as he tucks him back under the covers and settles in to wait.  
  


*  
  


He’s freezing. That’s his first thought, drifting up through the dregs of semi-consciousness, to find himself belly-down in a nest of blankets. The room feels hotter than hell - he dimly recalls turning up the heat, and the smell of dried sweat is all too telling - so it makes no sense for him to be shivering like this, every muscle in his body protesting its use. The last thing he remembers is Saturday morning, dragging himself back to bed after he narrowly avoided passing out in the shower and cracking his head open against the tiles. After that, everything’s foggy. He may have woken up a few times, to gulp down another Advil before crashing back into oblivion, but then again, all of that could just as well have been a dream.

And there’s something else, mixed in with the kaleidoscope of images churning inside his still-jumbled brain. Something that feels more like a real memory than everything else, except it can’t be, because there’s no way in hell…

He’s not alone.

It’s hard to focus at first, what with the pounding in his head, but once he makes an effort, he doesn’t know how he could have missed it before. Someone’s in the room with him, breathing quietly from less than five feet away. Albert still hasn't opened his eyes, and he keeps them shut for another few seconds, struggling against a rising tide of fear. He never gave anyone a spare key to his place. So the person in question must have forced their way in, meaning their intentions might not be benevolent, meaning Albert’s as good as helpless in his current state. But then why are they just _hovering_ there instead of trying to -

“You’re awake!” A voice pierces his fever-soaked haze of confusion, with considerably more enthusiasm than Albert was braced for. A very familiar voice, too, which makes his panicked train of thought slowly grind to a stop.

“Wha…? Coop?” he croaks, opening his eyes and trying to lift his head high enough to see. Sure enough, a shock of black hair comes into view, framing a face that looks both worried and inordinately pleased with itself. “No,” he mutters. “I’m still delirious. There’s no way you managed to get in here without…” The rest of that sentence devolves into a racking coughing fit. It tears at his ribs, jolting already strained muscles, and when it passes, Albert is curled around his chest, panting and dizzy, no energy left even to shake off Cooper’s unbearably gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Easy, Albert,” Cooper says, from somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear. “Try not to exert yourself. Your fever has gone down, but it’s still high, and I’m far from a doctor but I can’t say I like the sound of that cough.”

“Don’t -” Albert sputters, then clears his throat, “- barge into my home and then have the gall to diagnose me, Coop.” He rolls over onto his back, then has to lie still for a couple of seconds, clutching handfuls of blanket until his head stops spinning. Hard as it is to admit, Cooper is right. Albert’s in no state to pull any stunts just now. Which doesn’t mean he intends to let Cooper get away with this, at least not without explaining himself. “How the hell did you even get in?” he rasps.

“Breaking and entering doesn’t factor into it, Albert, don’t worry.” Cooper holds up a hand, to show a small key dangling between his fingers. “The caretaker kindly let me in once I explained the urgency. After all, a missing-person case is serious business.”

Albert stares. “Missing…?”

“We had a dinner date. You didn't show up. Of course I didn’t specify how long you had been missing, only that you were.” Cooper’s hand drops down, and for a moment, the smile on his face evaporates. “I was very concerned, Albert. Generally, I don’t hold the belief the end justifies the means, but in this case…” He shoots Albert a sheepish grin, one that he could swear is slightly frayed around the edges. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

The dinner. Damn it all to hell, Albert forgot all about that. But they were going to meet on Sunday, weren’t they, and when Albert became ill, it was only Saturday morning, so was he truly out for…? Ah, screw it. He’s awake _now_ , and his body is already making its displeasure with that altered state of affairs shown, in more ways than one.

“Hold that thought, Coop. Gotta pee,” he grumbles, not even sure why he’s compelled to make that an announcement. But it’s probably a good thing, because the second he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, he knows it’s a mistake. All the blood seems to rush to his head at once, sweat popping out at his temples, and Cooper is barely in time to catch him before the wave of vertigo that washes over him would have sent him crashing to his knees.

To his credit, Cooper refrains from comment. Instead he plants a hand into Albert’s side and lifts his arm across his shoulders, his movements cautious but assured.

They take one shuffling step, then another. Albert is shaking, drenched in sweat, and for a second he wonders if he might actually pass out, to make his humiliation complete, but he grits his teeth and tries to focus on nothing except the pressure of Cooper’s hand on his waist. When they reach the bathroom, Cooper stops and leans him against the door. “Will you manage from here? There’s no shame in asking for help.”

“For taking a piss, there is. I think I’ll manage.” Albert feels less convinced than he’s trying to make it sound, and the way Cooper is searching his gaze is making him even more light-headed than before. But he'd have to be dead before he accepts Cooper’s help in taking down his pants - in this context, at least.

Of course Cooper doesn't just leave. Albert can hear him pacing on the other side of the bathroom door, probably ready to jump to the rescue should Albert pass out for real, or be too far gone to be able to find his own dick; not that he could say which of the two seems more likely. But sitting down helps, and so does forcing himself to have a few glasses of water. By the time Albert emerges again, still shaky but a little more steady on his feet, Cooper looks just about ready to kick down the door.

“Not the bed,” Albert mutters, when Cooper tries to steer him back towards the bedroom. “Forty-eight hours of being holed up in there is plenty, thanks. And let's not mention the smell.”

“Point taken, Albert,” Cooper says. “Though I hate to burst your bubble, but actually…” He trails off and tilts his head.

“What,” Albert snaps, “I smell too?” He makes a half-hearted attempt to wriggle out of Cooper’s grip, but the hand on his arm is unwavering. “Well, if that offends your delicate sensibilities, you’re welcome to pack up and leave. Otherwise, if you could cut the talk for long enough to help me to the couch…”

“You're feeling better.” Amusement is mixed with relief in Cooper’s voice. “You're already putting words into my mouth.” Cooper’s grip on his arm shifts subtly as they move towards the living room. “For the record, Albert - I adore you whatever physical or mental state you're in, and regardless of how acutely you're in need of a shower.” They reach the couch in front of the TV, Albert too breathless from the exertion to do anything except let that statement wash over him. _Adore,_ Cooper said, while he could easily have picked a far more neutral word; _appreciate_ would have done the trick perfectly well. But instead he chose this one. And, after they sit down, his hand doesn’t leave Albert’s back, even though the contact isn’t strictly essential anymore to keep him from toppling over. All of that means something, but Albert’s head is swimming too badly for him to follow that thought to its obvious conclusion.

“Thanks,” he mutters, meaning not Cooper's questionable compliment but the offered help in getting him here. His headache is worse again, probably because he's still dehydrated, and he gestures at the half-empty bottle on the dinner table. “Refill that for me, would you? Tap water’s fine. After that, I’ll manage. I'm sure you can find more entertaining things to do with your time than babysitting a grown man with the flu.” He sighs and puts his head into his hands, avoiding eye contact for long enough that Cooper takes the hint and gets to his feet.

“More entertaining?” Cooper says, as he returns from the kitchen with not one but two water bottles and a glass filled with ice cubes. “I suppose so. More fulfilling? Never. We did have a date tonight, after all. Would you like ice in your water, Albert?” When Albert nods, still struggling to parse that first, deceptively casual statement and unprepared for the sudden track change, Cooper sits back down beside him and pours him a glass. “Besides, a restaurant isn’t strictly essential to a proper dining experience, is it? We could order in. Do you prefer pizza? Or Chinese?” Straight-faced, he hands Albert his drink.

Albert chokes back a laugh before it turns into another coughing fit, takes a sip of water instead. The icy coolness is sweet relief as it slides down his throat. Leaning backwards into the pillows, he allows himself to let his eyes drift shut. “Generally speaking I’d say Chinese,” he mutters, rubbing his temples, “but right now keeping down some chicken soup would be an accomplishment. Dammit, Coop, is food all you ever think about?”

“Not all,” Cooper says, “though I admit the enjoyment associated with a good meal is topped by few other experiences, especially in the right company. But since you’re asking…” There’s a long pause, as if Cooper is actually using his brain before he opens his mouth to Albert for once, which is progress. “Over the past few days, I’ve found myself thinking of _you_ with increasing frequency.”

“You have, huh?” Albert raises his glass to his mouth for another swallow, as much because he needs the fluids as to distract himself from his rapidly rising heart rate. “Well, you know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder - in my case, doubtlessly for good reason. Don’t worry, Coop, the feeling will pass soon enough.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Cooper says softly. “In fact, seeing you again today only made it grow more intense. And I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. That you didn’t believe I was truly here, because the only time I ever look at you ‘that way’ is in your dreams?”

Oh, crap. That happened? Until now, Albert had brushed off the jumbled memories of those first few minutes after waking as just a fever-induced hallucination, meaning he could safely ignore them… But of course Cooper couldn’t leave him to that kind of comforting fantasy. “I was half delirious. Whatever I said to you, I don’t think I meant…” Albert trails off. Opening his eyes, he gropes feebly at a frayed thread of humor. “For Christ’s sake, Coop, have a little pity on a sick man.”

And then he almost wishes he’d kept his eyes shut, because the depth of affection in Cooper’s face is intense enough it could knock planets from their orbits. In Albert’s case, it hits him hard enough to leave him reeling. “Albert, you’ll always have so much more than my pity.” Cooper reaches for Albert’s hand, with no regard whatsoever for a small detail like the existence of personal space. “And if I truly never let you see how I feel about you, then that would be unforgivable. Look at me, Albert. What do my eyes tell you now?”

Albert looks - against his better judgment, but he’s looking, and then he doesn’t know what he could possibly say. Even if he found the words, he doesn't think he could squeeze them past the lump in his throat, because Cooper looks as fragile as he looks radiant, filled with a love as pure and uncompromising as Albert has ever laid eyes on in his life.

He lifts Cooper’s hand to his face, finds he literally cannot breathe. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “I can’t…”

“Shh.” Cooper’s free hand finds his other cheek, and then those same, earth-shatteringly sincere eyes are peering into his, concerned and keen. “I'm sorry,” Cooper says, guilt obscuring his features. “I shouldn’t push you so hard. You're tired, you should get some rest…”

“I'm fine,” Albert mutters, and _no, you’re not,_ a little voice at the back of his head interjects, but he ignores it.

“You're shivering,” Cooper says.

“I'm cold,” Albert shoots back. “And hot, and my head feels like someone is using it for an anvil, so maybe it’d help if you’d let sleeping dogs lie for one fucking second, for the love of God, Cooper -” and then he doesn’t say anything anymore, because Cooper’s arms are around him, and Cooper is pressing him down into the couch with the kind of expression that says he’ll brook no dissent whatsoever in this.

“There,” Cooper says, with a hint of satisfaction once Albert is flat on his back. “I promise not to engage you in further conversation, Albert, on the condition that you try to get some sleep. I'll get you another Advil and a blanket.”

Albert winces and rubs a hand across his chest. That Advil is pretty tempting, because every muscle in his body seems to have gone on strike, and he feels heavy and achy and exhausted, but sleep still sounds like a joke right now. “Cooper, noble as your intentions are, could _you_ sleep with a five-ton elephant sitting on your ribcage?”

Cooper gives him a sympathetic look. “It hurts?”

Albert shrugs. “Just... breathing’s no picnic lying down.” And then he doesn’t know why he's just told Cooper that, except maybe because the man really does want to help, in a way that gets under Albert’s skin far more thoroughly than he cares to say out loud.

“Oh…” Cooper frowns, thoughtful, then brightens again. “Don’t worry, Albert, I know just the thing. Here, move over a bit… Okay. Now I’ll sit over there, and then you can lean…”

Albert’s too taken aback to protest the first part of the maneuver, but when Cooper settles in behind him, then tugs at Albert to lean against his chest, he rolls his eyes and tries to swing his feet towards the floor. No way is he going to let Cooper _cuddle_ with him while he’s shaking and drenched in sweat.

“Coop… don't,” he rasps, and then, because he can’t think of any reasonable argument, “You said I needed a shower, right? Go through with this, and I guarantee you’ll need one too.” But all Cooper does is secure his hold on Albert’s body, warm breaths ghosting against the side of Albert’s neck, and settle a careful hand against Albert’s breastbone as he pulls him close.

“Albert, you don’t strike me as a man who would settle for a home with a less than excellent shower, so I would not consider that punishment at all.” The humor in Cooper’s tone is gentle, and for a moment, Albert could swear there’s a hint of innuendo there too, though it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “How does this feel? Can you breathe better now?” The hand on his chest rubs gently, and despite himself, Albert knows he’s giving in, his head sagging against Cooper’s shoulder. He shivers again, uncontrollably, and Cooper responds by cradling him close. “Get some sleep, Albert. I'll be right here when you wake up.”

"Oh? Is that a date, then?” Albert says faintly. He has the strangest feeling that it is, which would make it the strangest date he’s had in his life, but just this once he’s not about to protest it. Not when he’s safe and almost comfortable in Cooper’s arms, and definitely not as long as Cooper keeps looking at him the way he’s been doing for most of tonight.

Lying back, Albert thinks of stubborn Special Agents, too focused on the pursuit of truth to remember where to draw the line. Then he thinks of first dates, and how this one isn’t half bad compared to some others, and about the cool press of Cooper’s body as it cushions his own.

Then he stops thinking at all and just lets the tide take him.

 

*


End file.
